To Be Somebody: Blood, Sex, and Tears, #3

Praise for To Be Somebody . . .

My Family was falling apart. Even though I went to treatment as did my husband there was so much pain, anger, bitterness and blame and so much work to do to make things right before we could even begin to feel like a healthy family. Evelyn’s books have helped tremendously I’m constantly recommending them to the people I love. I guess there can’t be a better testimonial that this.

Sherry.

Read additional testimonies from Evelyn’s clients . . .

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To Be Somebody

a tale of love, heartbreak and hope

EVELYN LEITE MHR, LPC

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To Be Somebody

a tale of love, heartbreak and hope

Third book in the Blood, Sex, and Tears series.

Published by: Living With Solutions, PO Box 9702, Rapid City, SD 57709 Copyright 1978 © by Evelyn M. Leite, MHR, LPC

First published January 1979. Reprinted January 1982. Revised 2019, now in its third edition, copyright 2019 © by Evelyn M. Leite, MHR, LPC

All rights reserved. No part of this manual may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information and retrieval system without express written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

Due to the dynamic nature of the internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have been changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely the views of the author.

ISBN: (print) 978-1-7335409-2-6

ISBN: (ebook) 978-1-7335409-3-3

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Disclaimer

This book is designed to provide information about the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher and authors are not engaged in rendering legal, accounting, or other professional services. If legal or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional should be sought.

Every precaution has been taken in the development of this book to bring you accurate and up to date information. However, there may be mistakes both typographical and in content. Therefore, this text should be used only as a general guide and not as the ultimate source for improving family relations.

The purpose of this manual is to educate and enlighten. The author and publisher shall have neither liability nor responsibility to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book. The author assumes no responsibility for any liability resulting from the use of the information contained in this book.

If you do not wish to be bound by the above, you may return this book to the publisher for a full refund.

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Foreword

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

About the Author

Other Books By Evelyn Leite, MHR, LPC

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Dedication

To my father for whom

understanding is

forgiveness,

for whom love is undying.

And to my family and

friends for their love

and encouragement during

my struggle to tell this story.

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FOREWORD

This is a personal document based on events which happen to people every day. They happened to me.

It is a story about alcoholism and abuse, about faith and healing, and about joy and serenity. It is written that all people in the helping professions may gain insight into problems family members face when alcohol is destroying their lives. It is further written to bring love, hope, and inspiration to people trying to cope with a disease they do not understand.

Names and events are changed, but the story is real and could be happening next door to you. Or in your house.

E.L.

December 25, 1978

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PREFACE

Shy and bashful, he sidled up to me. Daring and delirious, I stuck my hand in his. He was eighteen, I was sixteen. He was beautiful, I was plain. How could he notice me? He was a charmer, a dazzler. I was dull, a clod. He could disarm a whole room full of people with one lopsided grin. I could make no impression at all. He was a lover. I was a fighter. He was wild. I was controlled. He was from the wrong side of the tracks; that made him more attractive.

He had a father who alternately beat and deserted him and a mother who escaped it all by working sixteen hours a day. I had a father who alternately spoiled me rotten and held up my inadequacies for me to see, and a gentle, religious mother. He hated his parents; I scorned mine. He came from a loud, rowdy beer drinking family. He is nothing like them. At my house no drinking or swearing is allowed; that’s why my father is seldom home. I am nothing like them.

At his house, the most important thing is Possessions–underline the capital P.  At my house, the most important thing is Pride, also with a capital P. He boasts about his mother making him read every word of Emily Post. I was born knowing which fork to use. He reads the funny papers. I read the news. He quit school and joined the Air Force. I struggled through. He is more fun and exciting than anybody I’ve ever met. I am more daring and willing than anybody he’s ever met. Together we laugh uproariously at the world. He makes me feel like a princess. I would have licked his boots. We flout everybody’s objections to our relationship.

Heaven is the day we get married.

Hell is the year after, and after, and after.

Daddy cried at my wedding.

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One

Unable to sleep, I lay propped on my elbow, my hand cupping my face. Warm with the experience of the peak of love, I watch Harold, my Adonis, sleep. My eyes soak up his curly hair, his handsome face, his innocence in sleep, his lean muscular body. On his side, one leg bent, one arm outstretched, he looks like a runner for the eternal flame. Silently I congratulate myself for having the good fortune to be married to such a man. God, I say, thank you for sending me this goodness, this new beginning. I will do my best to deserve it. Please forgive me for not making it to church anymore. I promise to try to do better.

Young and healthy and full of wonder at the joy we find in each other, we are two kids let loose in Disneyland. Laughing, playing, drinking, dancing and taking all the thrill-spilling rides. One sophisticated Air Force man and one country bumpkin, three thousand miles away from home. No money, no car, no home of our own. But who cares? We have each other. When food runs out, we go to bed and concentrate on other things. This is the beginning; this is the start of a life that will know no equal.

It’s a lot more fun to go out drinking and dancing than it is to go to school. I’m free from home, free from my parents. I can do whatever I want with Harold. Nobody hollers if the refrigerator door hangs open; nobody says shut off the lights. Nobody tells me how insufficient I am; nobody says I’m dumb.

I am relaxed and secure in the knowledge that I have made it to my ultimate destiny, that of being MRS. SOMEBODY.

Harold is my husband, my lover, my friend, my father, my brother, my life. That lopsided grin destroys me, pulls out my gut. I am his to have, to own, to love.

My excitement runs rampant when he walks in the door. No is not in my vocabulary or in his. It’s yes, darling, yes, love, hey, babe, let’s do it. Wild and free, heedless and hasty, we taste and take. Rebellious and humble, we live for the moment. Tomorrow will take care of itself. For now, it’s enough to be together, to be on our own, to live our lives for each other. We spend our last dollar on a pitcher of beer. I worry about that; no, I don’t. Harold is the man of this house, the boss. It’s his dollar.

I push to the back of my mind any unsettling thoughts that try to creep, to worm their way to the surface, and think of the promised happy ever after. I will be soft, compliant, and pure. There will be no need for unpleasant bickering in this house, no cutting remarks, no searing the soul. Love will conquer all.

Harold calls me his old fashioned girl, and teases me about my puritan background. He loves it because he had to teach me how to make love. Sex at our house is not taboo. Nothing at our house is taboo. I am his wife, his mistress, his mother, his maid, his laundress, his bookkeeper.

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Two

But sometimes there are questions.

This is what marriage is all about? Cooking, cleaning, making beds? Is this all there is? What am I supposed to do while Harold is at work all day? I whip through the house work or ignore it for a good book. Then I wait, wait for Harold to come home and the fun to begin.

Harold must never know what I have discovered; I will hide it so well he will never find out. It will be my own guilty secret that I hate housekeeping, cooking, and coffee klatches. In fact, the only thing I really like about marriage, other than Harold himself, is the sex. God forbid he should ever find that out. Sex is for him; not for me, as he let me know so gently.

The merry-go-round is beginning to get boring. I make excuses for a lot of Harold’s behavior because of the difference in our backgrounds. I know that with quiet persistence I can change him. I think it is time to settle down, start building a life, a savings account. Harold, I tell him, let’s stay home tonight. Maybe we can even get up and go to church in the morning.

Aw, come on, beautiful, loosen up, let’s have some fun. I promised the guys we’d be there. Or, Hey, beautiful, I am the man in this family, and I want to show you off.

And because no one has ever called me beautiful before, and because I can’t stand to see Harold’s face downcast or disappointed, I loosen up and we have some fun. Harold dances a jig and his face lights up like a prism in the sun when he gets his way. I can’t stay upset with him even when I try.

In my family, whoever can say, laughingly, the most ego busting remarks wins. I learned early in life how to cut the soul, and cripple the ego with a glance and a well-aimed, well-chosen word. In fact, it seems to me, my only talent, is this one I groomed and polished to stay even with my father and four brothers. I am the champion, but I don’t want to win that way. Besides it’s lots easier not to cross Harold. At least for me: everyone else can do it.

I don’t understand Harold’s reticence to stick up for himself against other people. Not that he has too often, his charm usually gets him through most situations. But to let the telephone man, the landlord, the neighbors take advantage of him? Where is his gumption, where is his spunk? If there is a battle to do, I am the one who does it. He always cheers me on saying, Go get ‘em, tiger. What do you think I married you for? It makes me feel like a power house, but sometimes I wish he would take over so I could be the one that is charming. When I try to explain to Harold that I don’t like the he’s a nice guy, but his wife is a bitch feeling I get from this, he won’t talk about it.

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Three

Nagging, nagging, always nagging, Harold is screaming at me. Why? I just asked him to make a decision on whether or not we could afford to buy some new curtains for this old place. If you want new curtains, buy new curtains. You’re the one with the checkbook.

But, Harold, I need to know if that is what you want. I’m tired of looking at this dump. Maybe we should move.

Okay, we’ll move, If you want to move, we’ll move.

Harold, please, I just want you to make the decision.

Jesus Christ, my decision if to go for a beer. He grabs his coat and leaves in a huff. I am bewildered; how did that happen? Was I being reasonable? Yes, I guess I was; you can’t expect a man to care about curtains and that was a nasty crack about the dump. He can’t help it if we don’t make much money. Maybe if I go to work that will help. That’s it, I can get a job.

But the checkbook, I don’t want the checkbook. I have tried several times to give it back but nothing gets paid, nothing gets done, and the money disappears. He always hands it back with a sheepish grin, I’m sorry, babe; guess I’m just no good at figures. I resent this a lot especially when I have to juggle a too small income twice as much to fit in what he missed, but I don’t say anything. I am proud he needs me, proud I can do something he can’t.

I have lots of mixed